


Operation Pettiness

by thepeskyunicorn



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Break Up, Fluff and Crack, M/M, making up in the end, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 10:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6003253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeskyunicorn/pseuds/thepeskyunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Bond's going to play dirty, he'd better get ready for a knock down, drag out fight in the mud, because Q’s got a few tricks up his sleeves and he's too stubborn to take this lying down.</p><p>Or</p><p>Bond tries to break up with Q, and Q's spectacular revenge plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation Pettiness

Q was guiding 003 through the streets of Dubai, one eye steadily tracking him through the winding streets, idly listening to 003’s voice chattering cheerily through his earpiece, when he feels a presence behind him, heavy and vaguely intimidating. It was solely due to experience and the constant exposure to close scrutiny that he only sighed and asked, "What do you want this time, Bond?"  
  
The voice in his ear went worryingly quiet. A quick check confirms that 003 is still moving towards the target without being compromised.  
  
Bond did not answer, but the desk creaked as he sit down at the corner, eyes intensely fixed on Q, making himself unignorable and forcing the other man's attention on him.  
  
It's not unusual for Bond to wander into Q branch at odd hours of the day, usually to fondle prototypes, terrorise other Q branch members, or more frequently, to just stand behind Q, touching but not quite, calmly watching him go about his work.  
  
But something feels off about the visit. Q chalks it up to the wide berth between their bodies and the odd downward tilt of his mouth. Bond has never understood the concept of personal space when he talks to people he trusts and it's disorienting not to feel Bond's heat close by. Q finds himself suddenly aching for the absent minded feather touches to the inside of his wrists and his hips.  
  
"We need to talk."  
  
Q heard 003 make a sound. "Oh, bugger me with a fish pole, that really is 007."  
  
Q held up a finger in Bond's direction, directing his attention to 003. "Is this going to be a problem?"  
  
003 laughed, a little uncomfortable. "Well, rumour has it that the both of you are, well, ah, involved." Q could imagine him fidgeting. "I really would rather not be here if anything clandestine is going to be happening."  
  
Q fights the urge to smash his face into the keyboard. So much for keeping it a secret. "We're professionals, 003. I'm sure we can both keep it in our pants during office hours."  
  
003 muttered something like "We'll see." but goes back to being silent.  
  
Q turns to Bond, slight smile on his face and a warmness in his heart. Bond is still sitting patiently on his desk, fingers idly turning over a screwdriver, and he returns the smile. Q, who is an expert in all things Bond, detects only the slightest strain in his lips. "Do we really have to talk about whatever it is right now?"  
  
"As a matter of fact, yes," Bond put down the screwdriver gently, taking care not to make it roll. Q's eyes narrowed. It's a tell, and Bond is nervous. “It has to do with us.”

 

Q frowned. “Us?”

 

“Us.” Bond fingers drift over an eyepiece next. “This is the only way.”

 

“Only way?” Dammit, Q is starting to sound like a bloody parrot. “Get to the point, James. And please don't touch that.”

 

There is a ghost of a smile on Bond’s face as he straightened and smoothly pocketed the eyepiece. Q decided not to comment.

 

"We should stop this... arrangement between us, before it's too late. It's not working, and we're not fit for each other."  
  
Q only vaguely registered 003 saying "fucking hell", focused as he was on comprehending what Bond is saying. Bond is staring at him, eyes eerily calm, hand in a pocket and perfectly poised.  
  
There is a long pause. Q wonders if he's gaping like a dying fish.  
  
"I see." Q turns away from Bond, fingers tapping away as he pulls up more surveillance footage. "Consider it done."  
  
If Q was expecting Bond to drop to his knees to apologise or something dramatic to that effect, he is sorely disappointed. Bond slipped off the desk and nodded, face inscrutable, before striding away, taking care to plough through any Q branch member dumb enough not to move away in time.  
  
There is another long silence as 003's tracker continue to move forward, Q staring unseeingly through hazy eyes.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Q," 003 said softly, a rare note of sympathy present in his voice.  
  
Q blinks furiously, picking up his mug to take a sip, ignoring the way his hands are trembling. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied in what he hopes is a blithe tone, wincing as his voice cracked at the last word. “Turn right, 003. You'll reach a cross section in fifty meters. Please take the left turn then and enter the door marked 540b.”  
  
“Copy that.” There is the sound of running and 003 swore, low and vulgar. "I'll kill him. You deserve better than this."  
  
Q lets out a shuddery sigh, typing in a few lines of code to help unlock the heavy metal doors of the office 003 is trying to break into. "At least he has the good sense to do it in person." Q smiled at 003's incredulous snort. "And please refrain from killing 007. As much as he's a cold hearted bastard, we still need him out on the field."  
  
003 considered his request. "Fine, but could you at least let me castrate him?"  
  
"I appreciate the sentiment, but no." Q replied firmly. "No physical damage, please. And there are five armed hostiles heading down the corner so you'd best be careful."  
  
003 grunts an affirmative, the tracker for his palm printed Walther lighting up at the corner of Q's screen. "He'll be regretting he ever did that after I'm done with him."  
  
Q doesn't answer, mind already drifting to the bottle of expensive vodka in his apartment and the wide expanse of the cold, cold bed he'll be sleeping in tonight.  
  
***  
  
Q visits 003 in Medical five days after the mission is over.  
  
003 got off relatively unharmed, or as much as a 00 agent can be. Two broken ribs, multiple cuts along the back, and a black eye was the least serious amongst his extensive history of injuries.  
  
Q sits calmly by his bedside, watching 003 grumble about being stuck like an invalid and trying to eat grapes from the fruit hamper by his bedside. It was rather entertaining to watch 003 almost poke his eye out because of his morphine altered depth perception.  
  
"Did you lure 007 to your bedside so you could give him the split lip?"  
  
003's hand froze halfway from where he was about to carefully deposit another grape in his mouth. He puts the fruit down carefully and looks towards the ceiling, unrepentant.  
  
Q sticks out his bottom lip a little and pouts.  
  
"All right, all right, yes, I did." 003 sighs, running his hand through his hair and wincing as his ribs protested. "I only did it because I know he'll never punch back when I'm stuck in Medical. Besides," he crossed his arms sulkily, an action which took two tries. "It's the least he deserves."  
  
Q took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm handling this pretty well, 003. I hardly need your help."  
  
003 peered at him in a very fatherly way, clearly unconvinced. "Did you cry yourself to sleep for the past few days?"  
  
Q nods miserably.  
  
"Drank enough liquor to pickle your liver?"  
  
Another nod.  
  
"Tried hacking into the Chinese secret service database again even after M repeatedly warned you not to?"  
  
"I would never!" Q protested.  
  
003's gaze intensifies.  
  
"Yes, I did." Q muttered. "Their security is atrocious, by the way."  
  
"There you go. I wouldn't call any of that 'handling it pretty well'."  
  
"It was a mutual understanding." Q tries weakly.  
  
003 gives him a look that tells him he's full of bullshit. Q is beginning to understand why he's so good at his job. Any man who's proficient with communicating without words could ostensibly have a rather successful career in espionage.  
  
"I told the other 00 agents about what he did, too." 003 continues cheerfully, resuming his grape eating. This one landed on his cheek and rolled down his chin. "In fact, I think 009 and 005 had already drawn out plans of retaliation." He cocked his head, looking thoughtful. "Although i think 009 is taking this as an excuse to get revenge for the car 007 stole."  
  
Q sat upright, alarmed. "You told them?!"  
  
In a manner unsuited for one who just sent his colleague to the slaughterhouse, 003 managed to finally drop the grape in his mouth, much to his delight. "Oh yes, I did."  
  
Q stood up so fast his chair fell over. "This is my fight to handle," he said in a strained voice. "I don't need anyone meddling in this."  
  
He turned to go, and then stopped to think for a moment, before doubling back to grab the hamper and throw it in the biohazard bin. 003 made a strangled sound, fingers still making grabby hands mid air. "That's for sticking your nose in this business. If you do that again, all I'm giving you for your next mission is a broken slipper."  
  
Q smiles at 003's groan as he turns to go. "You won't do that," 003 called out to his back. "You love me too much."  
  
Q scoffs, but he does make a mental note to send another fruit hamper to 003,  
  
***  
  
Q is turning a corner when he bumps into Bond.  
  
Bond looks, for all intents and purposes, to be casually loitering about the empty stairwell leading to the Q branch, eyes closed and head tipped back, one leg propped against the wall, looking for all the world like the infuriatingly handsome arsehole who broke Q's heart.  
  
For a moment, Q's hand twitched in an aborted movement, a familiar motion borne of repeated actions burned into muscle memory, an askance for solace and comfort. Q is suddenly, blindingly, angry; angry at the man who thinks he has the right to give and take as he wish, angry that he had left him disoriented and directionless, angry that he had allowed it to happen without a word.  
  
"007." Q said shortly, squashing down his temper and marching past Bond. He might be mad, but at least he has enough dignity not to punch Bond.  
  
Bond pushes himself off the wall, moving fluidly to shadow the quartermaster. "Q."  
  
Q viciously silenced the chorus of hope in his mind helpfully pointing out that Bond was probably standing there in hopes of catching Q as he walks past. Because that would imply that Bond still has feeling for him. Which is an absurd concept.

“What do you want Bond?”

“I was just passing by.”

Q huffed. “Really? Seems to me that you were just being a nuisance.” he punched in the code to slide open the doors to Q branch. “As always.”

Bond slipped around him easily into the bunker, never breaking a stride. Q made up his mind to design a Bond proof security system. It should take exactly three months and much vengeance fueled energy to create.

“I was missing my quartermaster. Had to find out whether he's got new favorites now.”

It was only then, as Q shot a dirty, disbelieving look at Bond, that he noticed the nasty scratch on Bond’s cheek.

“Christ.” he acted on autopilot, dumping his laptop bag in the midst of the electronic clutter, reaching below his desk to drag out his very well stocked first aid kit, reserved especially for 00 agents who refuse to visit Medical before coming to him. He uncapped the antiseptic and pulled out the cotton wool with shaky hands, trying not to notice Bond's bemused stare on him. “Bloody idiots, all of them.”

Bond didn't even have the good graces to wince when Q brusquely slaps the cotton wool to his face. “Good to see I haven't lost your good graces then.”

Q refused to answer, only giving a grunt and making to pull his hand away.

Bond reached up, lightning quick, trapping his wrist.

And Q hates it. Hates the way Bond’s touch sets off a domino sequence of preprogrammed reactions; breath hitching, blush rising, the warmth in the pit of his stomach a pleasant roil as his fingers are gently caressed - they speak of another time, of something that they are not now. Bond is a master of seduction, it's what he do, and his body has not right to behave this way when the intentions aren't even genuine. Not anymore.

They don't speak, preferring to be locked in a staring contest only two very stubborn people can get into.

“Come to apologise?” Q said softly, afraid that if he maintained eye contact any longer he'll do something extremely stupid, like kiss Bond.

Bond stared calmly back, the bloody bastard, no trace of remorse on that craggy face. “No. I stand by my word. It's never going to work out between us.”

Q looks pointedly at their joined hands.

Bond sighs almost imperceptibly, fingers slowly letting up, body leaning back almost incrementally. “You know what I mean, Q.”

No I bloody well don't, is what Q wants to scream. He is not, however, twelve, unlike what everyone outside the Q branch thinks, so he resists the urge to yell and stamp his feet. He does grace Bond with his trademark unimpressed look, reserved for when Bond lost his equipments or when he doesn't do the dishes.

Bond eyes soften, a rare liquidising of ice blue.

“God, I miss this.” He trails his eyes to the distance between them, chest leaning to touch. “I miss _you_.”

Q swallowed back the bitter confusion, snapping the first aid kit close with a loud snap. He busies himself arranging the mish mash of wires and bits scattered on the table, hyper aware of Bond's searching gaze. “Good day, 007. Report to me in three day's time for your equipments to Rome.”

He could have left it at that, cauterise the wound and leave it to heal, cry himself to sleep for the next few weeks or drown himself in projects and assignment until the break up feels little more than a dull throb of sunburnt skin peeling off with the passing days.

He would, he could, except Bond says “I'm sorry,” voice so low and soft it could be a whisper in the wind, as he turns to go.

Q holds the edge of his desk, world wheeling and dizzy, leaving him to squeeze his eyes shut and gasp for breath. What the hell is Bond's playing at?

Minutes passed, theories and statistics flying in a whirlwind in his head, none of the possible scenarios making any sense whatsoever.

Fine. If Bond's going to play dirty, he'd better get ready for a knock down, drag out fight in the mud, because Q’s got a few tricks up his sleeves and he's too stubborn to take this lying down.

***

“Is that a fucking jet pack?!”

Q smiled slightly, watching as 008 rub the shiny surface of the jetpack disguised as a carry on luggage reverently. 007 stood beside her with a look one gives when trying not to scream and rip one's face off in envy. “Language, 008.”

 

“Right. Sorry Q.” 008 cast a surreptitious glance around Q branch and gathered the device into her arms, squealing like a kid on Christmas. 008, a very tall intimidating brunette who once made the kingpin of Italian mafia cry with a glare. “Fuck me!”

 

Q sighed.

 

“We don't even require a jetpack for this mission.” Bond said petulantly, although he had rearranged his face into another look of mild boredom again.

 

“Oh shush, James, stop pissing on my parade. You're just sore you don't get to have one.”

 

“Right.” Bond flicked his eyes wryly to Q. “Why _don't_ I have one?”

 

“Because 008 always returns her equipments, usually without its physical integrity being compromised. Also she brought me muffins from the place I liked last week.” Q looked up and stared Bond in the eye. “Good behavior gets rewarded.”

 

008 looked up from her cooing and petting. “I'm going to ignore how you made me sound like an animal this once.”

 

Q winced. “Apologies, 008.”

 

“Already forgiven.” 008’s voice went up in the end as she hugged the jetpack tighter. “God, Q, you're the best.”

 

Bond, in the meantime, have yet to blink. Clearly, this is going to devolve into another staring contest. “And my equipments, Q?”

 

Q passed over a metal tray loaded with the electronics. “Standard issue Walther with palm printed grip and watch. The watch is a radio, laser, and night vision lense. It is also a prototype.” Q blinked, letting Bond win this round, not that the poker face let it show his triumph. “Knowing you, I'd say it's a bit too much to ask you to bring it back.”

 

“Of course not,” Bond murmured.

 

008 shifted her attention to them, eyes sharp and intelligent, fingers still absent mindedly tracing the lines of her new toy. She didn't say anything, but there is mirth in her eyes.

 

“Come on now, 007, we best be gone. Cruise ships to Hawaii waits for no one.” With a flounce, 008 sashays out of Q branch, clearly relishing the attention of most of the technicians on her.

 

Bond tucked his equipments in his pocket, movements slow and unhurried. “Q.”

 

“007.” Q nodded, wild glee in his heart as he looked down at the computer screen. Phase one is in action and Bond is having none of the satisfaction of watching Q retreat.

 

But it doesn't stop Q from watching Bond's arse as he walks away.

 

***

Over the next three weeks, a departmental memo is issued, stating that Q is gunning for a record with his current inventing streak.

 

004 got a flamethrower disguised as a sports water bottle, 001 got a hooverboard, 009 got a new car that doubled as a boat, and 003 a lovely pair of cufflinks that doubled as lockpicks.

 

There was also an influx in the order for more punching bags, as 007 had managed to destroy every single one in the gym using an assortment of weapons and brute force. A separate departmental memo is also going around cautioning staff not to use the gun range unless absolutely necessary, as 007 might not be able to differentiate between a human and a target because he's sulking.

 

Yes, yes, he absolutely is sulking. Q knows, because he remembers the time when the cats in his flat smashed Bond's very expensive bottle of vodka and peed on his suits. The man had very calmly left for a few days, dropping off the grid altogether. His disappearance coincided with the significant decrease in crime rate in London that month.

 

Bond had then returned, tender and affectionate, like a huge cat himself seeking approval. It still makes Q smile thinking about it.

 

Eve had only shaken her head at the increasingly exasperated departmental memos and muttered something about immature boys before dragging Q home after another exhausting night creating prototypes.

 

***

“Eveeee..” Q whined, kicking the driver seat from where he was slumped at the back. The flash of streetlight blinds him as she drove like a maniac through the mostly deserted streets of night time London. “I don't understand.”

 

Eve huffed a laugh. “I assume you're talking about James.”

 

“007.” Q corrected. Too late for the intimacy of a name. “He's being a…” Q searches his sleep deprived mind for an appropriate phrase. “...colossal prick.”

 

“Really? Just like you are not?”

 

Q gave the car seat another kick. “Don't change the focus, Moneypants.” He throws a hand over his eyes, pressing the bridge of his glasses painfully to his nose. “He wines and dines me for months, sneaks into my flat, and made me think he actually cares about me. And then this?” Q lets out an irritated breath. “I refuse to be one of his girls.”

 

Eve drove in silence for a while, effortlessly coaxing the car faster. When she does speak, it's missing her usual bite. “For a genius, Q, you're rather stupid.”

 

Q groaned, too tired to come up with a snarky reply. “You're a horrible friend.” he mumbled. He could almost hear Eve's eye roll.

 

“You're the antithesis of the quintessential Bond girl to him, Q.” There is a screech as she swerved,  followed by a cacophony of angry honks. “Look at things from his perspective, will you? He's been hurt before, deeply and painfully. And now that he's got another shot at all of this, he'd rather run and protect you than stay. He's scared.”

 

“And a coward.” Q snorts

 

Eve lets out a long suffering sigh, executing a perfect turn and screeching to a stop in front of his apartment. Shifting to turn in her seat, she looked at Q affectionately. “Both of you are huge idiots.”

 

Q reached up and batted Eve's nose. She let's him, smiling at the way he drops his hand and yawns.

 

“Seriously,” she unbundled her seat belt, moving over to unlock his door. Q spills out in a mess of gangly limbs and tousled hair. “What did you hope to achieve with this dastardly plan of yours?”

 

Q blinks, pushing his glasses higher. A faint look of confusion passed his face. “I don't quite know.”

 

“See? Idiot.”

 

“Oh hush, Moneypants. Or I'll purposely jam your printer this time.”

 

Eve hauled Q upright, brushing down his cardigan. “Get some sleep, evil genius. You can figure all this out when you're less likely to break your neck sleepwalking.”

 

Q waves her off, giving her a sleepy goodbye and tripping up the stairs. Eve's words trips a vague shiver of confusion through him, but he decides to wait until tomorrow to think about it. And to implement phase 2.

 

***

Phase 2 consists of Q manufacturing a series of electrical annoyances.

 

There are some ground rules in his bid for (a very pathetic) revenge, the most important being that they should always be conducted during the agent's down time and that no passer by must be accidentally injured. Eve teased him that his ‘ground rules’ were the reason he couldn't be Grand Overloard of the World.

 

He starts with the traffic lights, easily tracking Bond through the series of cameras installed on roads to switch the green lights red at the very last second, silently cackling when he catches a glimpse of Bond swearing viciously and giving the lights the two finger salute. Once, he managed to delay Bond's trip home by two hours by carefully coordinating all the lights to go red just as he was gearing up to speed past them.

 

The motion sensor doors were next, although Q tend to do it in places that were not MI6; his April fool's joke on intern Peters is still a much talked about topic here. The supermarket near Bond's place being the most obvious target. It's strangely satisfying to see a man who is supposed to be suave and graceful struggle to pry open glass doors to his local Primark, usually earning stares in the process.

 

Q, remembering Bond's deep hatred for bubblegum pop music, had half a mind to set Bond's phone to play a Justin Bieber song whenever he tries to hit on women outside work, but when he hacked into his home security system (which was extremely hard to crack - and it should be; it was designed by him before he gave up the privilege as the primary personnel when Bond broke it, whatever _it_ was, off) and chanced upon the fact that Bond spends the nights of his downtime alone, drinking scotch, cleaning his palm printed Walther, and moodily fingering the watch Q gave him for his last birthday, his fingers faltered over the keyboard. He went to brew a cup of tea instead, choosing to ignore the significance of Bond's actions, letting the steam fog his glasses and the grainy surveillance footage warm his heart.

 

***

Bond, of course, did not take the interferences well.

 

He showed it in his usual passive aggressive way, destroying each and every equipment Q branch assigns him and making up ridiculous excuses of the cause of damage, or bringing back redundant pieces of his weapons, like the trigger of his missing gun.

 

Q accepts the news of his missing prototypes with uncharacteristic grace, before turning and intensifying the annoyance levels.

 

Tension levels in Q branch is off the roof, with the minions caught between staring confusedly at Q and trying not to breath in his direction. The fact that Q’s eyes are regularly puffy from lonely nights crying himself to sleep does not help with the general atmosphere.

 

It cumulates into a spectacular confrontation, with Bond marching into Q’s office, a slightly amused Eve trailing behind, most likely under the guise of preventing Bond from strangling Q but really wanting to be in the front seat for the drama.

 

“Ah, 007,” Q said genially, leveling a cool stare at Bond. “How can I help you?”

 

Bond is breathing heavily, suit slightly damp from the sprinklers Q set off not ten minutes earlier.

 

“You little prick.” Bond honest to goodness growls. “Why the fuck did you do that?”

 

Bond is mesmerizing in his anger, feral animosity rolling off him in waves,stance predator like, ready on the offense.

 

“I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.” Q replies loftily, taking a sip of his tea and holding his stare.

 

“You bloody-” Bond took a deep breath. “Your actions are unreasonable and incomprehensible. There is no need for such petty theatrics.”

 

Q bristled, but he kept his power face. “You know perfectly well why I'm doing this, Bond.”

 

Bond slammed the table between them, making Q jump. He's flirting the line of danger, and right now being in the same room as an angry 00 agent is not a good thing. “No I don't!” Bond fingers twitch, and Q could almost see him reach forward to wrap them around his throat. Somehow, it doesn't seem to terrify him the way it should. There is an inscrutable logic in him reasoning that Bond would never hurt him. “Stop this at once.”

 

Q lifted his chin and took another sip from his mug.

 

Bond let out a frustrated snarl, turning on his heels to storm out.

 

Only to find that the doors are locked.

 

He jiggles the handles a few times, and then gave it a few violent shakes. It barely budges.

 

Slowly turning, he said, dangerously calm, “Open the door.”

 

Q frowns, poking at his keyboard. “It's not opening.”

 

“What?!”

 

“Are you deaf?” Q huffed, swallowing the rising panic forcing its way up his throat. “It’s. Not. Opening.”

 

“Why not?” Bond demands, unbuttoning his jacket and drawing out his Walther. The light of the palm print sensor flashed green and he fired two shots at the handle. Q flinched, the gunshots still startlingly loud despite of the silencer.

 

“It's a system I designed myself, a quarantine system if and when something should happen to me inside the office, say an experiment gone wrong, and I needed to be kept secluded from the rest of Q branch.” Q typed a few lines of code, biting back an exasperated screen when they were rejected. “There's no way for me to hack it open from the inside. I'll have to wait six full hours before it auto unlocks or someone from the outside…” he trails off, dots starting to connect.

 

“Eve,” he whispers, the cold sting of betrayal chilling him. “Moneypants you meddling little shite!”

 

“It's called damage control, Q!” Eve’s voice is muffled, her figure barely visible behind the frosted glass. “Phase three has just been put into place. Think of it as time out for both of you boys to learn how to play properly.”

 

“That was NOT phase three!” Q shouted, a little hysterically. “Phase three was supposed to contain the detonation of a small nuke!”

 

Bond cursed under his breath, clearly already planning Eve's horrible death, pacing tight circles around the entrance. Thankfully, he had already kept his gun back into his holster.

 

“I'm sorry,” Q said softly, sinking down on his chair. “This really isn't supposed to happen.”

 

Bond halts his pacing and slants him a look, with the same glint in his eyes that Q had fell in love with. “I know.”

 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, unwilling to be the first to crack, Q sitting motionless with white knuckled hands and Bond resuming his pacing.

 

Finally, Q pushed back his chair, kneeling on the floor and tapping the tiles.

 

Bond tilted his head in interest. “Escape route?”

 

“Even better.” Q locates the hollow cavern and pried it open, gathering the loot in his arms, triumphant. “Alcohol.”

 

Bond gave an approving hum, eagerly taking the bottle preferred to him. Reading the label, he nodded, impressed. “You've got good taste, quartermaster.”

 

Q popped the cork on the bottle of vodka he's holding. If he's going to be stuck in a room with his sort of ex, he might as well do it in inebriated style. “I learnt from the best.”

 

Neither of them brought up the fact that “the best” is probably Bond.

 

“Well,” Bond shrugged out of his jacket to let it dry, causing Q to choke on a mouthful of liquid. Water was a bad idea after all, especially if it made Bond's shirt mould to his body in such a delectable way. “Here's to meddling friends.”

 

“And our sobriety.” Q added, clinking their bottles together. He lets his eyes track the column of Bond's throat, trying to convince himself the heat comes from the vodka, and not from the memories of love bites and sleepy morning kisses against rough stubble. He took another swig, wincing as it burned its way down, just to prove a point to himself.

 

***

Bond is watching him with half lidded eyes, sultry and hungry, the way he always does when he picks Q up after work, or when they're sitting down for dinner. They're both half tipsy, the warmth of the alcohol loosening their sense of boundaries. Q had long gave up his tie and his shoes, and Bond decided to go shirtless instead.

 

There are new scars that Q has yet to catalogue. He miss being able to smooth the white, puckered skin, to kiss them and bury the trauma under his brand of love, fingers tripping their path to count them. It's not just the physical with Bond, and that was what made separation so hard. He wonders if Bond knows, or if he did, if he even cares.

 

“I still think of you.” He blurts, because apparently his alcohol tolerance level is still the same as when he was in uni. It's embarrassing how it still makes his tongue wag.

 

“Sometimes about your body, of course,” he gestures vaguely in the direction of Bond's ridiculously chiseled torso, not missing the way his lips twists into a lazy smirk. “But mostly of us together and all the things I could have said or done wrong.” Q sloshed the half empty bottle sadly, peering into the bottom like it offers all of life's answers. “Because I _must_ have done something wrong. Or maybe I hadn't. All I can say is that I knew I didn't deserve you when we had our whatever arrangement, and honestly, I can't say I didn't feel relief when the other shoe dropped.” Q drops his head back, thunking it against the table. “But after that was mostly misery, the crying and sobbing sort. Not the pretty kind either, y’know, the ones with snot and long faces and such.”

 

Lolling his head to the side, he sees Bond's eyes glittering in the shadows under his desk, intense and focused. He laughs awkwardly. “I'm a terrible spy. Can't keep my secrets in when I drunk.”

 

Q is content to sit in the dark and drink until he pass out, fully regretting whether says tomorrow. He closed his eyes, staring at the lines behind his lids, starting a little when Bond spoke.

 

“It's new, loving someone who doesn't die immediately.”

 

Q’s heart skipped a beat and he rights himself. Bond appears not to notice, more intent on peeling the label off the bottle.

 

“It eats at you, after a while, the dread that any time now, the curse will set in and it's your cold body I'm hugging next.” He rolls a strip off, placing it carefully by his side. “And what if I died first? Wouldn't be hard to imagine, what with the number of times Death came calling, begging for scraps.” He takes a swig, flicking the strip away. “It's better this way. At least you're safe.”

 

Q swallows, trying for a rational voice. “I won't die on you.”

 

“You can't promise me that.”

 

“No I can't,” Q concedes. “But cutting yourself off isn't the best way to go about it either.”

 

Bond huffs a tired laugh. “Considering the options, it just might be.”

 

“And then what?” Q runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “What do we have to gain from this? And if I were to unexpectedly drop dead tomorrow, would it still hurt less?”

 

“No,” Bond snaps, and oh, what stubborn bastard he is. “But at least you'll have a chance of having a normal life. At least you won't be dead because you _care_ for me.”

 

“Are you even listening to yourself?” Q laughed incredulously. “I work in MI-bloody-6, how the how is it classified as normal? And what makes you think I'll care for you any less?”

 

Bond hangs his head, fingers twisting the bottle. “There might still be a few kinks in the plan to iron out.” he muttered.

 

Q stared, the absurdity of the sentence catching up on him. Then, he throws back his head and laughs.

 

“You're ridiculous,” he says between giggles, and Bond watches him, amused. “The entire situation is ridiculous.”

 

There's a small, fond smile on Bond's face. “You're laughing at me,” he accused.

 

“Yes,” Q rolls to his side, and Bond is suddenly, terrifyingly close, near enough for him to feel the other man's breath on his neck. “Yes, I am. What are you going to do about that?”

 

Bond’s fingers are caressing his arm now, leaving a hot path under his cardigan. “Absolutely nothing.”

 

It's so tempting to lean in and forget the conversation.

 

“Let me choose when this is over. I get as much of a say in this as you do.” Q resists the temptation to capture Bond's lips in his as kiss the weeks of stress, tears, and pain away. “But for now, I'm not done loving you.”

 

He feels his heart clench at the familiar way Bond's eyes crinkle at the corner, icy blue showing affection just for him, especially for him. He could blame the vodka for the way his head is spinning now, the scent of Bond's cologne and the length of his body pressed against his a welcome home, but he knows otherwise.

 

Bond beats Q to the kiss, pushing himself up for a chaste peck on the corner of his lips. “Done.”

 

Q snuggles closer into the heat of Bond’s arms. “Does this mean you’re through with being an absolute arsehole now?”

 

“I don’t know,” Bond murmurs, nestling his chin in the mess of Q’s hair. “ Are you?”

 

***

They don't shag in the office; Q making a moue of disgust at the suggestion. “I keep blueprints in here,” he protests, trying to wriggled out from under Bond's embrace. “It's unsanitary. And unprofessional.”

 

Eve was decidedly unimpressed with them, but looked marginally better when they let her do her version of ‘I told you so’, which was to hand them each a Conflict of Interest form and make them promise to buy her lunch for the next month.

 

Q pretends not to notice the techs in Q branch throwing a mini party in honour for their getting together and manages to drag Bond away from where he was receiving the ‘I'll cut your balls off if you ever try to hurt Q again’ from the double ohs.

 

It's not a happy ending, no driving off into the sunset in Aston Martins. There will be days where Bond is distant and unwilling, and there will be times when Q, fed up by it all, resorts to passive aggressive methods of showing his love.

But it's enough, for the both of them. And they always have Eve to count on when both of them are being obstinate. 

Besides, sunsets are for wusses anyway.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what happened and why I did this. But I do hope you enjoyed reading it!  
> Please come scream with me about 00q on tumblr: myskittlesexploded.tumblr.com  
> As always, kudos and comments are much appreciated!


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